Tag: history

Ghost Light

It is said, that in every theatre there are ghosts and shadows from the past. Performers, dancers, musicians and entertainers. Happy times, where the lights go out and the curtain rises.

Eric Cartwright had served his time in the Royal Navy for his King and country as an engineer, a young man with dedication, who could turn his hand to anything.

For the last thirty years or so, he had taken employment as the caretaker and maintenance man, for a local Davenport Theatre.

He could certainly entertain many a young or old sceptic, with his tales of shadowy presences and his encounters, on a lonely shift at night.

When the dancers and actors had left through the heavy stone steps to meet their fans at the stage door. Eric’s job was to check the building, to make sure all was secure. He never quite got used to descending into the bowels of the dark dingy passageways into the nocturnal pit under the stage. The dank air chilled him to the bone every time, as the knocking old pipes clanked within the dusk.

He would methodically check, that everywhere was safe and secure. Without looking behind him, or casting a glance over his shoulder, he would make his way to the open theatre.

Rows and rows of empty seats, some within the light of the stage, the rest encased in the blackness. Never straining his eyes into the dark as he didn’t pursue what his eyes didn’t see.

He worked well on his own. Proud to be the one the production team and the theatre goers relied on. A very proud cog within the large clock. Oiling the mechanism, as the musicians, scriptwriters, opera singers and conductors could count on him for their premiers.

He neither acknowledged nor dismissed what his senses spoke to him, at times, as his skin would crawl and his hairs would stand on end. Especially when a door, would suddenly close shut unexpectedly.

Thoughts of those spirits around him never left his brain.

Whether you believe, or whether you do not, does not concern me. I’m just conveying to you his story. He would tell you that there is nothing more unsettling, than the chill, that rises up within your spine, when working in a place that should be so full of life.

Performers, playing out to an audience. Tragedies, actors, memorising and channelling the scripts of Shakespeare, Romans and the Greeks. Plays, over 2000 years old. Brought to life. A connection, a medium between the there, and the now.

Stills and skills of a bygone age, memories, like photographs, captured in time.

Glimpses of nocturnal shadows, hiding behind veils. Returning, while those who sleep, relive their glory, on the stage.

The tradition of the ghost light, steeped in its history, back to the time of gas lit venues. Dim lights were left on during the night, to relieve pressure on the gas valves.

Moving forward in time to Eric Cartwright’s employment there, the lights were still very important, but now a floor light, left on to shine on the stage, whilst the theatre slept, and the doors were closed until morning.

It is said that this was to enable the navigator of the stage, to search for the lighting control console, without the misfortune of stumbling over props, or worse still, falling into the orchestral pit.

Some spoke of the ghost lights as being left on for some nocturnal thespians. As dusk fell, ghostly beings would return to the stage, and re enact their final performances.

Balconies were permanently left open, for ghostly guests to view these nightly performances.

As a naval apprentice, the rule of thumb was never to whistle whilst on ship. The same applied to the stage, neither on, nor off. As this would bring bad luck. Eric respected this superstition and applied it. Never to upset those who were there, or not, performing their roles.

His heavy key ring jangled. His eyes lowered as he locked up for the night. Not one to look at the lamp, nor the surrounding areas of the stage. Not one to stare, his eyes not wanting to graze the empty chairs. Respect for the nocturnal visitors. They too, avoiding his gaze, a mutual admiration for the key holder.

No need. As usual the chill followed, as Eric’s ears detected the faint sound of a bow grazing the strings, as the haunting melody of a Cello akin to that of the human voice, moved sorrowfully and beautifully through the auditorium.

The door closed on these theatrics as Eric walked the grey, wet flags to his lonely empty house.

Proud to keep these souls safe, within his theatre of dreams.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19445198.Julie_Modla

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Peak House

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Peak House Buxton Road

This Gothic Victorian house was built in 1891, just a few years before the construction of the Edwardian builds on Kennerley Road, formerly Kennerley Grave Road for some unexplained reason.

Anyway, Peak house was built beautiful proud and elevated overlooking the busy link between Manchester and Buxton with land at the rear which lent itself to an orchard.

At some point and presumably the initial purchaser of the house recorded in the 1911 census was a man named James C Arnold formerly of Hollingworth in the Peak district. A pharmaceutical chemist named his new purchase a fine property, Peak House.

Mary Elizabeth Arnold was his wife. He was so proud to have such a beauty and she loved him desperately and finally, after longing for a child for so long gave birth to a fine son. Harold Arnold, named as far as we know after his grandfather.

James was thriving in his business and had now expanded and taken lease of a pharmacy on Hillgate, Stockport, and so the story goes his apothecary became very popular within the town.

As his business expanded he became a pillar of society and he spent more time away from Peak house. As he was a member of a local masonic lodge and there, he was promoted to worshipful master. Some might say these secret societies were working with dark energies. We can’t say for sure.

As sure as his status as a fine chemist became known in the area, he was able to employ Edith Morris a maid for his wife, but even with all his knowledge, his wife’s health he could not seem to help. As her disposition was becoming weaker since the birth of her beautiful boy Harold.

Eager to keep her happy and with James’ affluence within the Davenport area, enabled him to employ a nurse to help his wife look after the child.

He suggested and medicated his wife with alcohol-based medicines to help her shattered nerves.

The nurse herself was childless and became devoted to the little boy, she cherished him and as her employers wife became more addicted to the medication her husband had recommended for her, the nurse became more protective over the boy and so the story was she had illusions of grandeur and treated Peak House as if it were her own.

So, the house wasn’t a particularly happy house for Mary. Her husband was a fine figure in the community and she was left feeling inadequate, her mental health deteriorating. One might say it may have been post-natal depression.

He was indifferent to her. A commodity, caring not if she was happy. He was pleased he could look after her and calm her nerves with the potions he had concocted. His son Harold lovingly looked after by the loyal nurse. His wife dependent upon his medication.

No one really knows what really happened and why the house stood empty from 1931 but there are rumours that Mary became mentally unstable and jealous of the nurse and tried to harm them both. I would be speculating if I claimed this to be the truth.

Peak house had fallen into serious disrepair as quite a few properties of this stature did after the second world war.

Ukrainians were brought over to the United Kingdom around the 1940’s and they formed their own community and Stockport became a hub for social activity and these families put their well earned savings into a pot and bought their very own club, the first being as far as I know at Turncroft lane, I imagine this would have been around the 1950’s.

It was 1968 the end of the swinging sixties and the Ukrainian community thought it would be a great idea to buy a bigger place, Peak House, a building that could be restored to its previous grandeur.

Ukrainians were from hard working backgrounds, money did not coming easy to them, smart and excellent barterers purchased Peak House. They were clever thinkers as many developed new trades. Plasterers, builders, electricians, painters and decorators, plumbers and roofers and so the hard work began.

Months later a decrepit Peak House was restored to its former glory and was put to good use as a social club.

A place the young men and women could gather, teach their young the language, the history, the traditions and the dancing, all helping them to keep the memories of their homeland alive.

Move forward to 2019, there had always been rumours that the top of the building the fourth floor was haunted. The builders and decorators had passed various stories down through the generations, it was said to be the nurse protecting the little boy but I wasn’t sure about all that kind of nonsense.

I organised a group meditation evening at the club, the members had been really accommodating and had suggested the room on the second floor, I call it the green room, a green carpet, a calm shade of green no other reason to call it by that adjective. I had rented this place for a reasonable price and I was delighted to start my new course there.

It was a late autumn evening; the sun had gone down and there was quite a chill in the air as I approached this grand Victorian building.

I arranged the chairs in a circle and switched on the small heater to keep the room warm for my guests.

The group arrived in dribs and drabs some later than others, through an entrance where traditional black and white tiles welcomed them in.

Climbing up the beautiful staircase there was a room to the left, now a youth area full of games wher the youngsters could gather. Up and around the banister to the second door on the left.

A room plush and filled with nostalgia, books, paintings and artefacts, a museum of Ukrainian ancestors. An atmosphere quite comfortable to that of the empty corridor.

Granted, when the club was filled with guests throwing parties or having Friday night drinks at the bar. Or concerts where the dancers could show off their talents or where singers filled the great hall with their voices, was an atmosphere quite pleasant and full of fun, However, in the quietness alone in the evening it was quite a different story.

I could not in my wildest dreams have foreseen the events that would unfold to me once the group had left.

I escorted my guests calm and spiritually enhanced down the large oak staircase back across the tiled floor and out through the heavy double doors.

I was to wait for the keyholder to arrive to secure the building and now quite alone I made my way to the warmth and comfort of the green room. The bar, the kitchen and the games room already locked up for the night.

This seemed a reasonable place to wait rather than sit on the stairway.

There was another level to this building as previously mentioned, the fourth floor. This was home to the beautiful vibrant costumes, bright red boots and elegant ribboned headdresses.

I sat back in the room and started going through my notes planning if there was anything I would change for next week’s group session.

I had no notion of what was about to unfold. A voice, female, barely a whisper sounded through the wall from the stairway. I could barely make it out. Now I know that the mind can sometimes play tricks on you, but it was female for sure, and I heard it again. Something quite chilling but I brushed it off with the thought that it was probably the cleaner as she also had a key.

With some trepidation I placed my ear against the door, I waited tensely for a few minutes to collect myself and with a sudden surge of courage, I dubiously opened the heavy door and cautiously ventured onto the landing.

I heard it again, this time louder now, a haunting voice, it was singing quietly, I could make out the words.

‘ …when she saw what she had done… this is a place with no one there.’

‘…no one there, no one there…this is a place with no one there…’

Repeating, haunting, singing in a flat monotone voice.

I should have turned and ran there and then. Strange how curiosity can get the better of you. Cautiously I made my way to the other stairwell, it had to be the cleaner, there was someone there for sure. Why I didn’t call out I can’t tell you. No one was visible from where the voice was coming from and despite a shiver shooting up my spine; as if in some kind of trance, I edged further on to the staircase and that’s when I saw it.

First, a dark shadow quickly moved from the top of the stairs, silence, the voice quiet now. To say it startled me is an understatement. My feet were glued to the spot, mesmerised and horrified as something resembling human form, hair draping around its face unnaturally crawled around on all fours and moved itself to sit on the top stair.

Such a look of despair and dread shrouded it. An intense fear took hold of me as that figure started kneeling, creeping and crouching around. A face thin and drawn an open mouth with a dark arid throat stared right back at me.

Death was looking me in the face and just as if the grim reaper himself was glaring down on my being. Spasms of fear ran through me.

A man’s voice bellowed from the ground floor. The key holder had arrived and as I glanced back, unpleasant to do so; a dark shadow quickly disappeared away from the top banister.

I hurried down the stairs with the fear of god in me, away from that unnatural and unnerving spectre.

A house with too many stories to tell. A house late at night, a house with no one there.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

Fiction